So I had a massive crush on a bartender at my local for weeks possibly months. He was something out of a bad 50’s movie about bad boys, diners and doing the twist to a jukebox playing music on the beach. He was tall, with a ducktailed hair style, a moustache that would make insecure men sob into their pillow at night and a body covered in tattoos. Neck to knuckles and beyond were covered in technicolour, tongue-in-cheek delights. The first moment I saw him I was smitten, no beyond smitten, I was lust filled. As soon as he would fall into my view my conversation would stop and all I could do was fight a primal urge to drag this man back to my bed by my teeth. The only thought I had was biting the collar of his shirt and dragging him like a dog would drag a bone that is triple it’s size. Standing close to him meant that I would stop breathing, watching him pour a beer literally made my legs weak. Taking all this in consideration it became very hard to order a drink without him thinking I was a person with special needs.

Things changed when a best friend for Sydney came to visit 4 days before NYE. Maybe it was the excitement of seeing an old partner in crime, maybe I was high on holidays, but I became determined to talk to the man. The only way I could think of doing so was to order drink after drink and attempt to make small talk. Some of my slurred pearls of wisdom were as follows “who is playing the music tonight? it’s awesome” *double thumbs up* “is this Mariachi El Bronx? I love them” *double thumbs up* “oh you are from Noosa? I have spent many a holiday there.” (lies, the closest I have ever been is Brisbane).

The bar was closed but I still wanted to drink. I decided to see if I could sneak in another round for my friends and I. I swagger up to the bar and smile a cheeky smile. I wave him over to him and say in a sneaky whisper “what’s the chance of getting some more alcohol?”
He replies “what do you want?”
“4 vodka and cranberries”
“no I can’t do that”
“1 vodka and cranberry”
“yeah, give me 5 minutes”
I swagger back to my friends and soon look over to see that he is giving me a little look to meet him on the other side of the bar. I duck around and try to pay but all he wants is a kiss on the cheek. For those astute readers you may have realised that this man is from Noosa which means that he is an Australian and an australian never wants just a kiss on the cheek. Maybe it was because I had be away for so long that I forgot this mating ritual, but when I lent in for a peck he turn his head and kissed me. I lost my cool and proceeded to wrap myself around him like a starved boa-constrictor. In the moment he came up for air he said “i’ve had my eye on you all night, can I take you out on a date?” my heart skipped a beat, not only was this man one of the sexiest entities alive but he was a gentleman too. I put it down to his age, a ripe old 36. Numbers were exchanged and I decided in my infinite wisdom to bring the party back to my place, we kissed a lot and danced but he didn’t try anything on, completely respecting me when I said no. This of course just turned me on even more.

Flash forward to New Years Eve. I’m dressed up in my finest 50’s pinup styles and still high from the previous antics. In the past 4 days there were sneaky smiles, flirty tickles and a sexy SMS. I had invited him to my house party when he finished work. I got a message from him at 2 am saying that he was closing up the bar and heading over. At 5am he stumbles to my apartment. I proceed to drunkenly drag him to my room. Things start to get hot and heavy and then we realise that he doesn’t have a condom which meant no sex. We end up passing out in a lustful haze and I looked forward to the morning.

7 hours later we get woken up by a message on his phone. It’s a voicemail, he checks it and starts laughing. I tiredly say “who is it”
“oh it’s a girl who I was sleeping with a little while ago. Found out last night she had my abortion, it’s my 8th abortion. She looked stunning last night, for someone who had an abortion last week.”
The phone then rings and he answers whilst still naked in bed with me.
“hey babe….. no I’m not doing anything…. yeah let’s meet up…. come to mine…. Ok see you soon”
He jumps out of bed and starts throwing his clothes on, all I can think is thank fuck I did not sleep with him and more importantly WHO THE FUCK TELLS A GIRL THAT HE HAS 8 ABORTIONS??!!???!?!!!! He then looks at me and says sheepishly “oh, I just realised what a strange situation this is, me leaving you to see another woman.”
Any normal person would use this time to let loose but not me. I use this chance to try and play it cool. I reply with the lamest thing I could possibly answer with “yeah well I guess everyone has a past, it would be delusional to think otherwise”. Yeah that’s right, I’m so cool, I’m so awesome, I’m so seething with anger. I walk him out and close the door behind me. I stand and stare at the door for a good 5 minutes. Concentrating on my breathing. I walk into the loungeroom and begin to violently shake, my friend from Sydney and the guy who she hooked up with are lying one my floor expecting a sweet smile and a giggle. They received a barrage of expletive at the top of my voice as I proceeded to start cleaning the apartment and obsessively sort recyclables. Every attempt to calm me word cause a burst of incoherent statements. The guy ran and cowered in my kitchen and washed up while I threw knives at him in the sink and screams things like “IF YOU PLAN TO SLEEP WITH A WOMAN THEN CUT YOUR NAILS. I THINK HE CUT MY LABIA, IT BLEEDING. WHO SAYS SOMETHING LIKE THAT.”
I mop the house and sob sing to Sarah Blasko. Once the house is clean I go out for a cigarette and turn to my friend.
“you know what the worst thing about it was? Her name. Her name was Royale. Yep like Pulp Fiction ‘Royale with Cheese’. He left me for a quarter pounder without cheese”.

So I have been on a handful of internet dates and now I understand why these men are searching on the Internet. Let me paint you a brief vignette of each date.

1) The Fin
We had a Sunday roast and then went vintage shopping so he could find an ironic cardigan. I tried to ignore the nazi-sympathising undertones of his conversation points. The next time I saw him was at my friend’s house party when he was intensely speaking about the nuances of French house music while I danced around swigging cheap wine from a bottle. I decided to abort and abandoned him at the party to go home and eat hot chips in bed.

2) The Micro Date
I had 2 hours to spare before I had to meet my friend’s at a gig. I felt bad for cancelling on mr micro date twice before. We had cocktails and the conversation flowed. The nail in the coffin was when he started chatting to my friend on the dating site because he recognised her from my Facebook photos and just wanted to say hi to me. Stalker.

3) The German
Cocktails again but this time there was the extra spice of racist jokes. His attempt at asking me out again was “so when am I going to see your cleavage again?”. Delete delete delete.

4) Shrunken Head
So I fell victim to angle photography, he looked normal in his pics, very cute indie boy, but in reality his head was about 1/2 the size of a normal head. It was just unnerving.

Amongst all this there were 2 guys I was actually interested in. But alas these also ended in dismay.

1) The Architect
Fun night out drinking in Dalston. Smart, funny and well dressed. He wanted to take me home and I declined. He messaged me a couple of days later to tell me he was seeing someone.

2) The Chef
Tall, aloof and terribly handsome. We went on several dates and he was shy but smart. We slept together after 2 weeks of dating and I never heard from him again.

Moral to the story: don’t internet date unless you have a fetish for freaks.

So as we all know I have started Internet dating. After receiving many messages from creepy men I’ve decided to create a list of donts for those of the male variety who are thinking about joining.

1) don’t just have one picture.
I don’t trust a singular picture, the light, angle, shadow, etc could have aligned with the stars to create an amazing picture of an otherwise creepy man.

2) don’t have all your images of just you in a mirror (usually in a bathroom) taking photos with your phone.
That just screams no friends.

3) don’t have all your images without a shirt on.
Leave something to the imagination, your abs aren’t that fantastic and you just look like a wannabe Situation.

4) don’t show pubes in a profile pic.
Too much information.

5) don’t face the same direction in every picture.
My imagination will run wild and I will assume that the other side of your face has been horribly disfigured in a fire.

6) don’t hide your teeth.
Let’s face it, this is England and we all know about the big book of british smiles. If you lack a picture that shows your teeth I’m going to assume you belong to the British smiles hall of fame.

7) don’t pose with weapons.
It’s not sexy or masculine, it just highlights the fact that you are an insecure nerd with aggressive stalker tendencies.

8) don’t have pictures of yourself in some variety of computer graphics/image/cartoon/avatar.
See above.

9) don’t team up a wide brim hat with a jaunty turtle neck.
You just look like that creepy uncle that everyone has.

10) don’t only have pictures of you in suits.
Yes it’s great that you have been to the races, been to a wedding, been to a formal occasion, been to drinks after work, been to a funeral, been to a suit store but it doesn’t make you look dashing, it just shows off your James Bond Complex and more often than not proves that you have no style.

11) don’t have all your pictures from a distance, in the shadows.
Once again my imagination will take hold and I will concoct a fantastically grotesque description of what you look like. No I don’t care if you have abs, look at The Situation’s face.

12) don’t post photos of you holding a baby.
It’s not cute, it’s frightening and unless you state otherwise I’m going to assume that it is yours.

13) don’t use the photo section as a family album.
I don’t want to see a picture of your mum, then a picture of your sister, then a picture of your creepy cousin, then a picture of your uncle.

14) don’t post a picture when I can only see the whites of your eyes.
If your eyes are so wide open that your iris and pupils look like a choc chip on top of a large bowl of vanilla ice-cream then you are showing way too much white. You have a bad case of stalker eyes and I don’t want you to eat my soul and throw my dismembered body by the side of a highway.

15) don’t have an empty photo section.
I don’t care how great your personality is, it is a sure fire way to know you are super crazy.

16) don’t pick women out of your league.
If she wouldn’t talk to you in a bar she sure as hell won’t talk to you online.

17) don’t dare me to contact you back. I don’t like to be bullied or pressured to do anything, especially by a strange man on the Internet. I’m stubborn and the only thing you are going to make me do is delete your message.

18) don’t think you are funny by ending your message with “so what are you doing this weekend, apart from taking me out?”
It’s not going to work. I’m just going to assume that you have no money and want to mooch of me.

19) don’t use text speak/poor spelling or grammar.
I don’t think you are cool, I think you are lazy and stupid and not worth a conversation.

20) don’t tell me about your chastity belt.
If I don’t highlight in my profile that I am into that kinda thing don’t send me a long email detailing it assuming that I am.

21) don’t send me Internet gifts.
What I’m I going to do with an Internet rose or an Internet tacky handbag?

22) don’t make fun of my profile.
Completely pointless, The Game doesn’t work in real life and it definitely does not work over the Internet.

23) don’t tell me what you want to do to me.
You are just coming across as creepy and desperate.

24) don’t ask me about my tits.
You just sound like a horny teenager.

25) don’t write a story about our first date.
It just demonstrates that you spend too much time reading fan fiction which means too much time on the Internet.

26) don’t plead with me to look past your appearance.
I’m pretty sure you did not contact me purely based on my written profile.

27) don’t tell me how much you love Australia.
I’m just going to assume you want a free pass back. I left that country for a reason.

28) don’t write a one word message to me.
How do you expect me to reply to “hey”, “hi”, “wow”, “hot”, or “x”?

29) don’t barrage me with chat requests.
I don’t have the time to sit and chat to you about your likes and dislikes.

30) don’t barrage me with requests to meet up.
Just because your calendar is empty in London (seriously how is that possible) doesn’t mean mine is, I’ll let you know when I’m free. Just play it cool.

31) don’t keep contacting me if I have not replied to your previous 4 messages.
I’m just not interested.

And finally

32) don’t ask me if my glasses are real.
I’ve said that they are, have the decency to read my profile before messaging me, it’s there for a reason.

The old saying is true, I said I would never ever go on an Internet dating site but 6 lonely months in London has made me do it. Maybe it is because the cold is setting in, possibly it could be an attempt to prevent S.A.D. as it is now getting dark at 4pm, what ever there reason or justification it has happened.

I decided to go for a free site, one that takes it’s name from a bountiful ocean saying. I created a profile and filled it with all the things I like and a few things I hated. I was completely selfish and did not attempt in any way shape or form to sell myself to the opposite sex, I just waxed lyrical about me, me, me. No sugar coating, no generic statements as I thought this would help weed out the dregs.

Before I even added any pictures I was already getting responses, I was surprised and a little scared about this happening. Why on earth would you contact someone on a dating site who was void of an image? Did London men really not care about the physical and preferred a witty profile instead? I then checked the calibre of the contacts, it was the desperadoes, hunting for fresh meat. I decided to follow the traditions of image selection, a photo of me in elegant formal wear from a friend’s wedding, a photo of me dressed up pulling faces last Halloween and a photo of me casual in my glassss. After my images went up my inbox exploded. My ego was stroked like never before and I felt like a superstar. I was shocked, I didn’t know how to proceed? I then realised, there was no reason to be polite, fake a conversation or pretend to take an urgent phone call, I was online. I could be as shallow as I wanted to be and no one would be none the wiser. I decided on a list of 4 main factors and a couple of supporting factors to assist me on making the choice whether to reply or not.
1) age: over 28, extra points if they are in their 30s
2) height: need to be taller than me, extra points if they are over 6 feet
3) photos: if they are attractive and bonus points if they have more than one.
4) no children

Supporting factors came from their accompanying blurbs:
were they literate?
Can they spell?
How devoid is it of cheesy cliche sentiments?
Do some likes mirror mine?

Surprisingly I was able to find quite a few men who met my criteria, I felt that there may be hope in the cold dark world. Let’s wait and find out…

A funny thing happened to me on the way to work the other day and by funny I mean strange and by strange I mean creepy. I was on the tube in my own bubble, listening to my iPod and reading Stylist. I realised that I was getting a stare down from a man near me. We caught eyes for a mili-second and I spent the rest of my journey trying to avoid his laser-like gaze. We happened to get of at the same stop and we both caught the escalator up to the exit. My first alarm bell was the fact that he stood on the step directly behind me, it was no big issue as it was quite busy. Then I felt strange, something wasn’t right, that when I realised that his hand was up my skirt and gently placed on my arse. It was so gentle that I debated if I was hallucinating, I shifted and realised that it was definitely there. I decided to swivel myself around and face the billboards that adorned the wall, he decided to do the same and this time pop his can of drink up there to keep it warm I guess. I was in shock. If it was the evening I would have told him where to go and would have made a spectacular scene, but it was early morning and I was caught off guard so I just stood there and took it like a lady. I stood and stared and prayed that he didn’t try to do anything else. I got of the escalator and ran to my bus stop and I was paralysed with fear when I saw him walking towards me again. He just walked passed and I did nothing. It was broad daylight, with people around and I still chose to do nothing.

From what I’ve been told this is a common occurrence in London, it’s almost a rite of passage as every female has a story about it happening to her. While the reactions vary, most of the time we just put up with it, hoping that it will go away.

I don’t know how I feel about it, when I told people at work I had to tell it as a funny story because it is considered such a non-event here in this town. I had everyone giggling at my retelling and I felt so much better just saying it out loud, even though I had to mask my true feelings on the situation. Maybe I’m becoming more british, not wanting to cause a scene. All I know is that I’ll be standing sideways on the escalator for a while now, and maybe sew razors into the underside of my dresses.

So I have had a chance to reminisce all week about my current lack of affection. I have been lamenting about the fact that I have no one to hold me and tormenting myself with the thought of contacting men I have no interest in just so I can get a cuddle. I blame the Valium. I realised that actually it could be worse, I could be caught in a bad cum face situation.

Picture this, you are in bed with a gentleman caller, it’s hot and possibly heavy, everything is going at a great pace, and it is time to finish the deal. You might be like me and try to fit in one more orgasm before it’s all over. Imagine that you are close and then you see the most horrific face looking back at you. You don’t know whether to scream or laugh or cry but sure as hell you won’t be orgasming, possibly not for a long time. This is a situation I once found myself in. The problem with this is there is no way of telling, especially if he isn’t a musician, beforehand.

The horror story began as all horror stories do, on the Internet. I had a random add on Facebook. He was a smart, handsome Brit living in Sydney. We flirted a bit through messages, I eventually added him and soon after we had our first date. We met at a cafe in Darlinghurst, as Sydney is city dependent on motorways I decided to drive to the date. He was charming, in his thirties and educated, I thought I’d gotten a trifecta of awesomeness. I decided to demonstrate one of my finer moments of coolness and had a cappuccino to every wine he had. While my speed freak impersonation and jittery hands must have been quite endearing to him by his 6th glass of red it did mean that I drove home at midnight in sunglasses because the traffic lights were too bright and thought that my brain was about to explode with every bump. I did end up securing a second date out of it some how.

The warning bells should have rung on the second date when he was surprised how close glebe was to sydney’s cbd (“hey I can still see the centrepoint tower from here!”). I soon discovered that his world only existed from Surry hills to Darlinghurst, with his apartment in kings cross being the epicentre. Luckily for me he was happy to slum it in the inner west and after dinner he promptly suggested that we escape back to his safety zone and have a few drinks near his place. Nope I still didn’t see it coming, but surprise surprise I ended up drunk, we ended up back at his and he introduced me to his cat (yet another red flag I drunkenly ignored).

We went to his room and drunkenly fooled around, his moves were superb and I like were everything was heading. I was ready for the grand finale and let him know that I had been pleasured enough so he should feel free to finish (points to him for giving me multiples). I do quite enjoy that final orgasm that you can have at the same time as a man and after all the hard work he had put in it was definitely going to be a good one. The pace was picking up, I could feel the pressure building and I closed my eyes momentarily to help things along. When they reopened, the charming Brit was replaced with something I have only seen in my nightmares. His eyes were wide open, so wide open that not only could I see all the whites in his eyeballs but I think I saw flashes of optic nerve. His nostrils were flared like a bull and I’m pretty sure I could see directly into his brain through them. His mouth would alternate between a clenched jaw flashing all teeth whilst he grinded them with veins almost at bursting point in his neck, to opening his mouth as wide as he could still in a smile formation,  allowing me to see right down into his stomach. Safe to say I was petrified. First I giggled assuming it was a joke, but noticing that he was not breaking from this horrific state I then realised that this was no joke, I was scared, so very scared. My body shut down and I just stared at him whilst he came. I tried as best as I could to escape but he then locked me in a vice like spoon-a-thon that lasted me till morning. Luckily I had a friend’s surprise birthday to get to so I was able to wriggle myself out of there for a walk of shame to the closest taxi, silently praying and doing the sign on the cross in an attempt to exorcise the demon I had experienced.

I never saw him again, I struggled to orgasm for weeks but he still comments on my Facebook updates. He is now engaged. I just have an empty teacup.

Last week I ended up following a guy home. Not actually to his home but I do freely admit that there were stalker qualities involved. I walked home from Old Street station and encounter the same male 3 times on different sections of my route. What made this all the more significant (and slightly heartbeat stopping, nauseous inducing, sweaty upper lip causing, rapid breathing stirring) was the fact that he looked like somebody I use to know, in the carnal fashion. This man was someone who ranked in the list of importance, he was the first male of significance since I lost Simon; my one and only and truly the most amazing entity to have ever existed. The male of significance was named “Satchel” after the very fetching man bag he had when we first met. Impressed by the coincidence of threes and slightly drunk and lonely, I decided in my brilliance to email Satchel, letting him know I saw his doppleganger in the streets of London and keeping him updated with my general state of affairs. I did not flirt, I did not reminisce, I just shot him a short email of funny happenings.

This email was not unwarranted, as soon as I moved here there was a flurry of emails and chats and even the occasional text. I received emails from him while I was still in the sky flying to London, he would waste 45 cents texting me internationally to tell me he was at an exhibition that he thought I would love. There was emails of concern during the riots, there were emails of photos of my favourite places around his home, there were so many emails because he was a non-facebooker. This made the separation all the harder because of the lack of stalking qualities. I would resort to googling his name and would end up with information about his footballer cousin. So imagine my heartbreak when now, one week later, still no email. I should have expected it, the contact was dwindling to once a month and he was always a man of mixed messages, a man who got off on faux-intimacy, that situation where you are in an intimate relationship but only in the bedroom, once you leave that vicinity you are a mere acquaintance. I’m sure you are thinking “this guy sounds like an asshole” and my rational mind agrees but I was fragile when we met.

I saw him in a pub we use to over frequent in Newtown when out drinking with friends. It was almost 6 months after Simon passed away days before Xmas, my self confidence was shattered so the prospect of approaching was more terror inducing that swimming in a pit of infected needles. To add salt to the wound a friend of a friend ended up chatting him up and I sat in the corner, eating my heart out. As always there is a twist of fate, she ended up going home with someone else and he decided to continue drinking into the sunrise with us thanks to the cunning ways of my best friend.

Nothing happened the first night, numbers were exchanged in a friendly capacity, there was a lingering hug and he left a lovely note thanking us for the use of the couch and the wonderful company. I think it was the note that sent my heart a flutter, a male, with lovely handwriting, was considerate enough, nay gentlemanly enough, to leave a note. Oh sigh. My best friend concocted an elaborate plan just so I could see him again, she threw a house party the week after to which he attended. He found out about simon and didn’t flinch, that’s always a nice feeling, but once again nothing occurred.

The day after new years I was invited over to his for Italian cinema, wine and risotto with mushroom and pine nuts (nope, i still thought this was a ‘friend’ situation). I walked into his house and my heart stopped. There was all the matching furniture to what I use to own with simon. I got drunk, he got lucky and we decided that we wanted something more than sex but slightly less than a relationship. Turns out this situation was as followed:
Daily SMS chats (usually consisting of no more that four)
Accompanying me to gigs
Drinking together at least once a weekend
Being invited over for vegetarian feasts and cinema at least once a fortnight
Talking
Coffee in the morning before work
Sleepovers on school nights

It did not involve:
Going out on dinner dates
Telling friends
Breakfast
Phone calls

Satchel was travelling to Europe in the 3 weeks prior to my imminent departure. He left London the day I arrived. Before I left we had the most perfect date together, we bonded, he told me sweet nothings and the last words he uttered were “I’m so happy and honoured to have met you” and a passionate kiss on his front step. Before he left he sent me a message saying the same thing and the first email I received when I touched down was from him saying that I would love London from what he had seen.

I know, how romantic, how wistful, he got under my skin. I kept thinking that maybe he was the one that got away. I silently promised that if he wanted me back I would go. But none of that, just a flurry of emails and now nothing.

I then started thinking about a male friend of mine who was also addicted to faux-intimacy. I questioned him on it and he told me he just “wanted to make the girl feel special”. He did it as an ego boost, he didn’t really care to much about her but got off on knowing that he was significant to her. Fucked up on so many ego stroking levels I realised that may have fallen victim to this circumstance. A faux-intimate ego stroke, could that be all that I was? All signs are pointing to yes. But why do it? Why say things, knowing they stir emotions just to make yourself feel wanted, what is so wrong with these men that this is something acceptable? Is it because they have perfected the game by playing on the romantic ideals fed to us as little girls? Was I a bigger prize because he was able to stir these emotions in someone who thought they would never love again? Yet another reason why I would be happy in becoming a cat lady who collects teacups, much more enticing than being a badge of honour on a faux-intamacists boy scout sash.

Currently I’m teaching at a special needs high school. I have an all male class and they are all around 15 years of age. My time is largely focused on socialising my students so they can be functioning members of society. Being in a predominately male classroom for the last month has really demonstrated masculinity in it’s most basic forms. Boys of all ages find the same things funny (farts and silly noises are still classic hits) their opinion on the abilities of females are the same (“girls can’t play football”) and they still find anything female/homosexual emasculating or intimidating. The growing trend amongst my students is the concept of “sexy” and the associated woos that accompany it. The boys began attempting to wink at me and raise their eyebrows suggestively. While I was impressed that they grasped that these were international cues to convey sexiness, I was worried about what would happen to them if there was a misdirected woo in the general vicinity of someone who was not a fan of the special needs sector. Not wanting my students to be mistaken for sex pests when they left school I invented ‘The Gentlemen’s Club’. Yes I know that the name is choc full of delicious irony, that was part of the reason I chose it.

The concept behind TGC is simple, a photo of each student adorns the wall and for every gentlemanly act they get a gentlemanly accessory attached to their photo. So far we have a top hat, a monocle, a moustache and a bow tie. If the student has committed a un-gentlemanly act an accessory is removed.

The first task was easy enough. Stop using the term sexy in order to earn a moustache. Basic replacement. I explained to the boys that if they are walking down the street and they say “hey sexy lady” they would probably scare the woman off or, depending on how dark it was, may have the police called. If they replaced ‘sexy’ with ‘beautiful’ they might get a smile. They seem to understand this logic and there were moustaches for all. I felt like a great success and would, at random point of the day, hear the occasional “yes beautiful lady” slurred in the most endearing way. I then realised I had a problem, how do I teach males, and special needs males at that, how to be a gentleman when the very concept seems to only exist in the mirage haze of drunkeness if at all? What was accepted gentlemanly behaviour and what was outdated? I thought back to all the men I have encountered and tried to list what I thought were gentlemanly qualities, the list was as follows:
Offering to pay or at least buy a round
Not hitting on other women when you are out
Appropriate compliments (would you believe that telling me over drinks in a public place that you was to jizz on my boobs is not appropriate)
Going down on a lady (it’s just manners. Just because it has lips doesn’t mean it will bite back)
Not cumming first
Messaging after a date/hookup/booty call
Writing in full sentences in an SMS

As I came up with this list I realised that attempting to teach this would result me being put in jail so I just decided to aim for the basics
Manners
Listening
Not talking when others are talking
Walking away from confrontation
Not swearing
Not grabbing genitals in public
Give people personal space
Being helpful
Sitting up
Standing tall
Walking not running
Asking politely
respecting others

I realised that most males I knew would barely be able to fit this secondary criteria let alone the first. How do contemporary males learn what is and isn’t appropriate? School? Parents? Friends? Media? All of the above? I tried to think about the last person that I had dated that fit this ideal and struggled to think of someone alive. After all my pondering I realised it all boiled down to one age old word R.E.S.P.E.C.T. I became even more depressed when I tried to think of someone alive who had respected my intelligence, my opinion, my personal space, my body and my bedroom. Since when has the concept of respect become outdated? Maybe I could start a tea cup revolution and bring TGC to the masses in order to revive this dying tradition, maybe I just need another drink…

Oh I’ll tell you why.
It’s been a slow simmer of events really which culminated in an explosion of confusion and shock. Unfortunately this was due to the actions of a male of no significance and that is what made me even angrier, that a male of no significance was able to stir my emotions in this way.

A quick recap for those not in the know. I had been sleeping with my neighbour for the last couple of months, let’s call him cowabunga. Before you say it I already know, sleeping with the neighbour is always a bad idea. In my defence, I had just moved to London and was looking for an extra blanket to keep me warm on cold nights. This dalliance began during the birth of the riots. Maybe it was the excitement/fear, maybe it was perpetual drunken state during those few months (holidays, sheer joy), whatever the cause the affect was that I let this male into my bed.

Perhaps it was the giddiness of breaking the drought that blinded my judgement, there were warning signs. He liked to come over for cups of tea, nothing else, just tea. He only came over when he was so drunk that he could not remember what happened the night before. It then started going down hill (yes it got worst that this is the point of decline). I may have accidentally take advantage of him in a drunken state because cowabunga was a silliac, and I fed him a sandwich, the slept with him. That can’t be a good thing? He refused to buy condoms, that’s right, I was not worth the couple of £s so he could have a good pound. Yet he still came over for cups of tea and would call me randomly from newcastle at 2am to tell me about his night (why on earth did he think I would care??).

The icing on the cake was one Friday night not too long ago. I had a friend over visiting and was feeling under the weather. I was debating all evening weather or not I should go out but decided that there was no harm going for just one drink. Cowabunga messaged me, asking if I would like to have a cigarette with him, I agreed and he popped over to chat about his new job and other boring topics. As I had to get ready to go out I invited him upstairs to hang out in my room while I prepped myself. This was not a sexual suggestion, I had a house full of people, my roommate was getting ready next door and he had come up many previous times before in a non sexual capacity.
The warning bell should have rang when he told me to come back only in a towel, I ignored him and just got changed in the bathroom. I went back to my room and he proceeded to throw me down on the bed and began to strip me down. He decided to go down on me and as he head was in between my breasts and his hand were in ‘special places’ he decided to tell me that he was celibate. (trust me you read that last sentence right) he didn’t see anything fundamentally wrong with this situation, granted in the past he also didn’t know how long was a human pregnancy or what menopause was. He decided to stay for a few more cigarettes and proceed along his merry way.

I heard nothing from him until monday, when he apologised for his actions, tuesday he apologised again and wanted to know if “we could still be friends?” his first excuse was that he had decided to stop sleeping around and saw me as more that a booty call, he saw me as a close friend. I explained that honestly was always the best policy and also pointed out that I was never that interested in him. He replied with “if honestly is the best policy that I need to be honest with you, I’m seeing someone but you are one top bird”. That’s right, he some how got me confused with a feathered, egg laying, creature that predominately lives in nests and has the ability to fly. According to him “top bird” is the highest compliment you can receive from an Englishman.
Lucky me….

So these actions got under my skin. Drove me to get annihilated on booze and feel very sorry for myself. It also got me thinking, why are men so stupid? How do they believe that this is appropriate behaviour? And why are my stories (and that of my friends) getting worse not better with age? As I could not answer these questions I decided to write this blog instead.

Need a teacup top up?

So here we are.

It has come to this point.

I have become so baffled by my current surroundings that I feel that I have to create a space to vent, a conceptual padded room to purge all tales of woe and instances of hilarity in the hope that my brain does not liquify with bafflement.

So let me pour you a drink and I think you should get comfy because it is storytime…..